


Freedom

by TK_DuVeraun



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-22 11:22:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8284079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TK_DuVeraun/pseuds/TK_DuVeraun
Summary: AU. As a devout child, Anders is determined to turn himself in to the templars, but at the last minute, he just pretends to be an orphan seeking refuge and grows into a faithful Brother. A young, rakish Sebastian is sent to the Templar Order after a botched escape attempt from the Chantry and discovers mages aren't the only ones trapped in the Circles.
When the two meet in Kirkwall, it's the biggest catalyst for the Mage-Templar conflict.
At least until they meet Hawke.

Who wants ReluctantWarden!Sebastian and Secretly-a-magePriest!Anders?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The unwilling templar!Sebastian-secret mage Brother!Anders AU you never knew you wanted.
> 
> I don't know what I'm doing, but shit, it's fun.

When Leon was eight years old, he realized he was a mage. He’d snuck off to a clearing in the small wooded grove near his family’s farm to avoid plowing and practice his camping skills. After five frustrating minutes of shouting at his flint and the log that refused to light, it suddenly burst into flames. He threw dirt on it and stared at the log long after the fire was out. He was panting as if he’d run up and down three years and he was covered in a cold sweat.

Static and panic drowned out any thoughts he might have had. Finally, a single thought broke through:  _ If I panic, more magic will happen, won’t it? _ Fear pierced him and cut through the static into terrifying silence. As the fear reared up in the back of his skull, he started reciting the Chant. His parents were devout and he often heard his mother humming it while she did the wash.

When his heart stopped racing, he clenched his hands into fists and went home. He snuck into his own house like a burglar, triple checking that his mother was busy in the herb garden before stealing inside. He snatched the embroidered pillow off his bed and the heavy work knife his father had given him for his last nameday.

Jaw set, Leon snuck back out of his house and  _ ran _ . 

At first, he aimed himself at his village’s Chantry, prepared to turn himself over to the single templar, but when it came in sight, he hesitated. If he turned himself in  _ here _ , his parents would suffer the reputation of having a mage for a child. No, it wouldn’t do. 

For three weeks, Leon ran. He slept in barns and stole food when he could. The knife and pillow he carried in an oilskin sack over one shoulder. Exhausted, dirty, weak and somewhat delirious from bronchitis, Lean finally staggered into the Chantry in the castle city of Redcliffe.

For four days, the Mother and Sisters nursed him back to health, but even once he could talk, Leon couldn’t. Couldn’t admit to evil magic inside of him. Couldn’t admit he’d run from his parents. To hold back shamed and defeated tears, he recited what he could remember of the Chant in his native tongue. 

They called him Anders.

 

\---

 

At thirteen, Sebastian realizes that his father actually  _ does _ know a punishment that will stick. The thought comes to him when he wakes up, hungover and bleary-eyed on a ship. A ship bound for  _ Ferelden _ . 

Two of his father’s guard ignore him except to explain that he’s been given to the Ferelden Chantry.

Seaspray hits him in the face as he leans over the railing and mutters to himself. As much as he hated Orlesians, they had actual nobility rather than muddy Doglords. He started planning his escape before he even knew where his prison was. Bribes of gold and favors were out of the question. He picked at his shirt, some rough cotton monstrosity his parents wouldn’t have even let their servants wear. 

He’d have to be clever to get home, but he wasn’t worried. He’d spent his entire life undermining his parents and brothers, a few Chantry Sisters wouldn’t be a problem. He hummed to himself. Yes, he would lull them into complacency by practicing his bow work. Then he would eventually ask to be allowed to practice outside in some field. 

Then he would run.

Eight weeks later, stuffed into the back of a wagon leaving Denerim and taking him to  _ templar _ training, he thinks he may have miscalculated by showing off his martial skills.

 

\---

 

When he was twenty, Anders happily accepted a transfer to Kirkwall to serve under Grand Cleric Elthina. He’d been devout as a child, but as he grew up and demons haunted his dreams, driven away only by recitations of the Chant in the Fade, his belief strengthened into the core of his person. 

In the back of his mind, a voice whispered about his hypocrisy. How dare he call himself a Brother when he was a  _ mage _ and lying to all and sundry about himself and his past? But he ignored it. His magic was a gift that came naturally to him, controlled by his frequent meditations over the Chant. He used it to quietly help people. 

He could encourage small hurts to heals more quickly. Strengthen the weak that sought help inside the holy walls of the Chantry. He could calm the panicked give rest to the weary. Surely that was the Maker’s will.

But as he walked through Hightown on his way to the Chantry, Anders doubted for the first time. The Veil felt  _ wrong _ in Kirkwall and howled so loudly, Anders felt as if he could hear them even while awake. They were a constant itch in the back of his mind and ofttimes when he went about his duties for the Grand Cleric, his feet started walking him towards the Gallows without conscious thought.

After these episodes, he would make his way down to Darktown in his off hours and would disguise the magic of his healing. It was easy to claim it was the work of a healing potion or the sudden influx of food and clean water. The Darktown residents had little or no experience with either, so they took his explanations gratefully and without question.

 

\---

 

When Sebastian is twenty-two, he learns the hard way that phylacteries aren’t the only leashes the Circle holds. The very hard way. The crippling nightmares, gibbering incoherently intense pain and constant vomiting way. He doesn’t try to escape again.

He steals and hoards lyrium at every opportunity, but he’s not stupid enough to leave without a long term solution. Just before the Blight, Knight-Commander Gregoire finds his stash. It’s taken before Sebastian can even speak the first word of his excuse and before he’s done reciting it, the paperwork for his transfer is completed and sealed.

His post in Amaranthine rations his lyrium so stiffly that his skin itches between doses and he resents his parents more than he ever envied his brothers. 

When the Arling is transferred to the Hero of Ferelden, Sebastian can’t keep the grin off his face. This he could work with. He  _ knew _ Daylen Amell. He  _ knew _ the man’s weaknesses and he was  _ clever _ .

He arrived at Vigil’s Keep just after the Warden Commander. He added his arrows to the mage’s blasts of fire and lightning. His voice was light and cheery. “Well met, Amell!”

The Hero did a double take and then snarled. “What do you want, Ser Sebastian?” He spun his staff and whacked a darkspawn in the head.

“Who, me? Nothing. The Chantry, though, they’re not too happy with you being the new Arl. A mage! What a  _ scandal _ . And without proper templar supervision. Who knows what you could get up to with your sinister magic?” He launched a volley of arrows over the shoulder of the pink-armored knight ahead of them.

Daylen grunted and launched a fireball at the last genlock. “And you’re here doing your holy duty?”

“I’m here  _ pretending _ to do my holy duty. I say we let the Chantry hang, but  _ tell  _ them I’m your righteous babysitter. Meanwhile, you make me a Warden and we go off and save Thedas.”

Daylen looked at him with both eyebrows raised as the woman in pink armor made sure the darkspawn were all dead. “You  _ want _ to be a Warden?”

“You’re a mage. The Wardens are surely giving you some sort of lyrium stipend. I get the same, you get my bow and a nice excuse to keep the  _ real _ templars off your back.”

 

\---

 

Anders froze, one foot still in the air, halfway through Lowtown. Almost mechanically, his head turned to the left where he felt the  _ massive _ magical presence. He set his foot down and planted his disguised staff in the dirty ground. He pushed a lock of red-blond hair out of his face as he stared. 

A man with auburn hair and a longbow strapped to his back was arguing in loud whispers with a second man in full plate armor. Anders blinked when he realized both men were in Grey Warden armor. 

“Yes, I agree that what the urchin did was unjust, but that’s what the city guard is for,” the auburn haired man was saying.

“The Kirkwall Guard is insufficient,” the helmeted man replied, his voice deep and somehow  _ wrong _ .

“Justice,” the man began, a thick accent appearing due to his frustration, “we’ve already established that you getting torn apart in the Gallows is unproductive.”

“We must do something.”

“We  _ must _ focus on our task.”

Anders walked up, using his staff as a walking stick in a practiced, natural motion.

The Warden with the bow looked up at him and raised a sculpted eyebrow. “Can I help you, Brother?”

Anders narrowed his eyes and used his staff to open the front of the armored man’s helmet. Whatever he  _ had _ been expecting left his mind, replaced by the abject shock at what he  _ did  _ see. He yelped and jumped before falling on his ass. “He’s dead! You’re a-”

The Warden swore and followed Anders to the ground, covering the Brother’s mouth with a hand. “Are you  _ trying _ to call the templars?”

“Yes!” Anders said, though it came out as a muffled shout.

“Sebastian, what you’re doing is-”

The Warden held up his free hand to the  _ animated dead man _ and let out a blast of energy Anders recognized as a templar Silence. Anders stiffened, fear racing up his spine, though he couldn’t decide what frightened him worse. The dead body walking and talking in a suit of armor or Warden, Templar, Anders-wasn’t-sure-but-it-was-bad.

Sebastian frowned and turned back to Anders. “I’m gonna take my hand off your mouth. You’re not going to scream are you?”

Anders nodded, not sure what else to do.

He removed his hand and then pulled Anders to his feet. “Alright, you’re going to come with me and we’re going to get this all settled.” He put his arm around Anders’s waist. “After all, it would just break the poor Grand Cleric’s heart to learn one of her Chantry’s Brothers was secretly a mage. Don’t make that face; I was a templar. I know a mage when I see one.”

Anders stiffened again and let Sebastian lead him into Darktown, the dead man in armor following a step behind.

 

\---

 

“So you expect me to believe that you found a mortalitasi, got him to animate and preserve a corpse… and then you put a  _ demon _ in the corpse?” Anders said slowly. He was locked inside the tiny Lowtown hovel Sebastian and his… demon were living out of. His wrists and ankles weren’t bound, but they didn’t need to be when the Warden could finger him as a mage.

“I am a  _ spirit _ , not a demon,” Justice insisted.

“ _ I _ didn’t. The Warden Commander did.” Sebastian looked down at his fingernails, exposed by the fingerless gloves he wore as part of his Warden uniform. “Unlike  _ you _ , I’m not a mage.”

Anders frowned. “What are you doing in Kirkwall, then?”

Sebastian spread his arms wide. “What is anyone doing in Kirkwall?”

“We are here to find justice for the murder of the Vael family.”

Sebastian pointed to the spirit. “Also that.”

Anders rubbed his face with both hands. “You’re insane.”

“I’m a prince.”

Upon seeing that Sebastian was completely serious Anders shook his head. “Far be it from me to interfere with the Grey Wardens.”

The dead body nodded. “Your response is well-reasoned, Brother Anders.”

Sebastian opened his mouth, but looked over at Justice and shut his mouth. He paused for a moment and then said, “Justice, I think I heard someone knocking out front. You should go check that.”

“I heard nothing.”

“I’m sure I heard it. You should go.”

“I will do as you suggest.”

Sebastian waited until the door closed behind Justice and then smirked at Anders. “Yeah, you not interfering is great and all, but I think you’re going to volunteer to help us out.”

“...You’re blackmailing me.”

Sebastian gave the Brother a winning smile. “I prefer to call it properly incentivising my help.”

“I bet you made a terrible templar.”

“Complete rubbish at it. Why, I didn’t rape a single mage!”

Anders winced.

Sebastian nodded, his expression serious for just a moment before the smirk took over. “Don’t worry, Brother Anders, it won’t be so bad. Justice has a bug up his arse about the whole Mage-Templar injustices here in Kirkwall, so you’ll be working for a good cause.”

Anders crossed his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed. “What’s your stake in this?”  
  
“Freedom, my dear Brother; freedom.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so Hawke enters the picture.

The quiet scritch-scratch of Sebastian’s quil was drowned out by the fire crackling in his and Justice’s front room. The white noise easily masked the distance buzz of darkspawn down in the Deep Roads. He paused and reread his report. It was to Nathaniel, of course. Sebastian refused to acknowledge the Orlesian prat holding the Keep while Commander Amell was Maker knew where. 

A cat yowled in the alley behind the shack he shared with Justice. Shared was a rather generous term. Justice, as an animated corpse, didn’t need to sleep… or sit… or eat. Really, Sebastian felt as if he was sharing with a rather talkative weapon. Assuming that weapon completely lacked a sense of humor and was entirely too goal-oriented.

He was just adding a doodle of a bow to one of the margins when a knock sounded on the door. Unlike most Lowtown doors, his was sturdy and banded with enough iron to keep out all but the most determined ruffians. Sebastian dropped his quil and rose from his chair, making his way around the heavy desk. He straightened his leather chestpiece, centering the silverite griffon, and opened it.

Two men and a dwarf awaited him in the Lowtown street. The men were dark-haired and dressed in well-worn armor - one bearded and in light leathers and the other clean-shaven and partial plate. The one with a beard had a staff on his back - it looked convincingly like a polearm, but Sebastian could feel the gentle hum of recent lyrium use and wasn’t fooled. The dwarf was blond and lacked a beard, though his red jacket was open wide to reveal copious chest hair.

Sebastian raised his eyebrows, a significant spark of amusement curling in his chest. “Can I help you?”

The bearded man spoke. “I’m Garrett Hawke and this is my brother Carver and our friend Varric Tethras. We’re looking for a Ferelden Grey Warden.” Garrett stood in a deceptively casual stance - one Sebastian recognized from his time following Commander Amell. Must be something about battle mages.

Sebastian smirked and made his accent as thick as possible. “Ah, well, I’m clearly from Starkhaven, so I’m afraid I cannot help you.” He leaned against the doorframe and watched the annoyance spread so obviously over Carver’s face.

“Oh, I like him. Can we keep ‘em, Hawke?” Varric asked. The dwarf had a heavy crossbow over his shoulder that Sebastian assessed carefully. It looked  _ off _ in a way he couldn’t quite place.

Without further comment, Sebastian backed up and held the door open for them. He made his way back to his desk and folded the letter before stuffing it in the top drawer, heedless of how it crumpled. “If you’re looking to join, I’m afraid I’ve not the authority to help you.”

Garrett and Carver each took a seat while Varric stood at the side of the desk so he could still make eye contact. Again, Garrett spoke first. “We’re planning an expedition into the Deep Roads and want a map of the entrances in this area.”

“Terrible place to get a date the Deep Roads,” Sebastian commented. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his hair. “No pubs, either. No idea why you’d want to go there.”

The younger man, Carver, rolled his eyes. “Can you help or not?” His scowl painted the very familiar picture of a put-upon younger brother.

“Why are you looking for a  _ Ferelden _ Grey Warden when you want maps of the Free Marches?” Sebastian steepled his fingers as he needled them. As much as he was enjoying the freedom of Kirkwall, he delighted in the authority being a Grey Warden seemed to grant him.

Varric smirked and pointed to him. “Well, we found a Marcher Warden.”

Garrett’s face remained polite and the side of his mouth pulled up in the ghost of a smile. “Grey Wardens aren’t the easiest people to find. We’d just heard a Warden from Ferelden was here in Kirkwall.”

“It was two Wardens, actually,” Varric corrected, making a show of looking around for the elusive second Warden in the tiny shack that clearly only housed one comfortably.

Sebastian shrugged. “We  _ did _ come from Ferelden and  _ don’t _ have any maps of the Deep Roads. Ansburg is the closest outpost, if memory serves.” In a show of disinterest, he picked up a half-fletched arrow from the floor and spun it between his fingers.

Carver stood up and threw his hands in the air. “This was a waste of time.”

“Calm down, Junior. We’re not out of options yet.” Varric smoothed the front of his jacket. “Now then, Warden-”

“Sebastian.”

“Sebastian, I’m sure the good Wardens at Ansburg are very busy people and don’t have the time to make a deal with us, but if one of their brothers, say, from the Ferelden branch, requested a map, I’m sure they’d be happy to oblige.” The dwarf grinned.

Sebastian hummed and continued to spin the arrow. “Hmm, sounds possible, but what do I get out of it?”  
  
Garrett straightened in his seat and looked at him consideringly. “We’re a rather well-skilled group of people. How about a favor for a favor?”

Sebastian made a show of rubbing his chin with the smooth shaft of the arrow. “Hmm, I may have a mercenary group - the Flint Company - I need eradicated and I’m really so terribly caught up with Warden business.”

Carver, who was still standing, suddenly narrowed his eyes at Sebastian. “Wait a minute, I’ve seen you picking up women in the Hanged Man! How is that  _ Warden business _ ?”

Before Sebastian could answer, the door opened and Justice entered. Thankfully, he didn’t remove his helmet. “Sebastian. We have guests.”

“...Yes.” He bit his tongue as the wheels in his mind spun, trying to find figure out the best way to phrase things before one of these idiots gave Justice the right, er,  _ wrong _ idea. “These gentlemen are trying to recover some stolen property that they’ve traced to the Deep Roads in this area. I was simply offering my assistance for such a… just endeavor.”

“That is good. You often indulge in frivolous tasks.” Justice remained standing there in the middle of the room, oblivious to the way he crowded Carver. 

Varric eyed Sebastian’s suddenly tight expression and picked up on the thread immediately. “That’s right. A very important task. If it’s all the same to you, Warden Sebastian, we’ll just head out now. We’ll be in touch.”

\---

Anders was halfway through his rounds in Darktown when a familiar arm draped itself around his shoulders. Attached to that arm was a slightly to moderately drunk Sebastian in plainclothes. Anders sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Hello, Sebastian.”

“And how is my favorite Brother?” Sebastian’s words were heavily accented, so… moderately drunk. He didn’t lean his weight on Anders, just used the Brother to walk straight.

“I don’t know, Sebastian. I haven’t seen Brother Laurent since you got him drunk and made him rescind his vows. It was an elaborate affair. He called in the Grand Cleric and a full half of the sisters. Ripped off his cassock, threw it toward the Eternal Flame.”

“Did you just make a  _ joke _ ? Tell the Chantry to stop the service; the Maker has returned to us!” Sebastian chuckled directly into Anders’s ear. His breath was hot and humid and stifling in the stagnant Darktown air.

“Oh yes, and Andraste was at his side. She said that we’ve had it wrong all along and we need to acknowledge the Black Divine.” He snapped his fingers and shook his head. “Looks like Tevinter got it right.” He switched his walking stick to his other hand and put his free arm around Sebastian’s waist to help keep the Warden upright.

“That’s bloody brill, Anders. Why aren’t you always like this? It’s me, isn’t it?” Sebastian offered Anders a wineskin and the latter was quickly readjusting his assessment of the former’s drunkenness. “My magnificent presence just rubs off on all and sundry. Come, let’s find some beautiful women and celebrate.”

Anders pushed the wineskin away, but not before noticing it was empty. “The Sisters don’t appreciate my tongue. They think it’s too sharp, but then decline all of my offers to prove otherwise. It’s really very rude.”

Sebastian howled with laughter. “If I ever go back to Starkhaven, I’m taking you with me.”

Anders pried Sebastian off. “I’ll be sure to remind you.” He straightened his cassock and then reached over to straighten Sebastian’s clothing. “But if you’ll excuse me, I  _ was _ in the middle of something.”

“You’re  _ always _ in the middle of something, but never in the middle of some _ one _ . I can help, you know. There’s an oil that’ll bring out the red in your hair. Women  _ love _ red hair, but only a little red, like you and I, not full gingers.” He pulled the tie out of Anders’s hair and ran one hand through it as if to make a point.

A drunk, rather,  _ another _ drunk, staggered across the path and Anders pinched the bridge of his nose again. “Fine. I have two people expecting me for ‘blessings’. After I meet them, I’ll make up an excuse you can give Justice for why you’re pissed this time.”

“Lying is a  _ sin _ , Brother Anders. For shame.”

“ _ Or _ I could instantly cleanse the alcohol from your system right now.”

“Yes, yes, where do you need to go?”

\---

Anders watched, his hands patiently clasped together, as the man looked back and forth between the scrap of paper in his hands and Anders himself. When the bearded man started consulting a second one standing at his shoulder, he sighed and rubbed the stubble on his face. When the men started arguing in a hushed whisper and began walking away, Anders spoke up. “I take it you’re the sellswords?”

The men turned around and made their way back to Anders’s out of the way alcove. It was tucked in between two of the stone buildings in Lowtown. The bearded one spoke first, “Ah, yes. We weren’t quite expecting…”

Anders raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms, his walking stick in the crook of his arm. “A Brother?”

The man grinned, his white teeth bright against his black beard. “Something like that. What does a good Brother like you want with some smuggled cargo?”

Anders pushed off the wall and used his staff to support the few steps it took to reach the man. He used the gnarled end of his stick to tap the end of the staff on the other man’s back. “Some things are better left unsaid, I think.”

The younger man groaned and rubbed his face with one hand. “More bloody mages. I think there are more mages in Kirkwall than all of Ferelden.”

“Don’t mind him, Brother. He’s just  _ my _ little brother.” The man held out his hand to shake. “Garrett Hawke. And he’s Carver.”

Anders shook the offered hand. “Anders. From your reputation, I’m sure you don’t need a warning before we go to the docks. You have the location, so… after you.” Despite the brothers knowing his secret, Anders continued to use the staff as a walking stick as they made their way through Kirkwall.

A few stray thugs skittered about in the deeper shadows of the alleys and under the eaves of rotting roofs, but none seemed willing to attack a Brother of the cloth. Anders walked with his head high and a confident swagger to his step. 

“What  _ is _ with Kirkwall and its abundance of mages?” Garrett asked.

Anders shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t exactly been  _ trained _ . If I had to guess, it has something to do with the thinness of the Veil here. Actually, if you can find primary sourced histories, there’s a surprising amount of correlation between Veil strength and horrible things happening.”

Carver snorted. “What’s a  _ primarily sourced _ history?”

“A primary source is a first-hand account. Of course, the Chantry goes through and censors anything that doesn’t fit their narrative, so it’s difficult to find them,” Anders replied airily. He even gave a little dismissive wave of his hand.

Garrett stopped and turned to look at Anders. “That… Sounds pretty bitter for a Brother.”

Anders blinked in response. “I cannot serve the Maker at my best if I ignore the uncomfortable flaws brought in the faith by the mortals that must spread it.”

“Er, right.” Garrett looked down at his handwritten map and looked around, trying to spot a landmark. “The cargo should be in Daren’s warehouse. That’s… Two streets down and one left...right?”

“No, left,” Carver said.

Garrett groaned and ignored his brother. He drew his staff as they drew closer to the warehouse. Rats scurried from the direction of the cargo doors, a hint that it was occupied, even in the dead of night. A few feet from the door, Garrett whispered, “How subtle do we want to be?”

Anders merely raised his eyebrows as the wooden cargo doors burst apart in a shower of flames. He grinned at the Hawke brothers’ expressions. 

Carver recovered first and drew his greatsword before charging at the smugglers inside. Garrett waved his staff. Anders felt a hum of protective magic settle over him as he walked casually into the warehouse. He whacked a woman in mismatched armor with the length of his ‘walking stick’ as he picked his way to the crates.

The ringing clash from Carver’s sword and the buzz and hum of Garrett’s magic provided a soundtrack for Anders’s rifling through the crates. He threw scroll cases and trinkets over his head into the melee, at least once hearing an accompanying grunt. Eventually, he pulled out an old, water-stained tome. He crowed in delight and straightened. “Found it!”

“Are you  _ joking _ ?” Carver shouted. He was covered head to toe in gore from the smugglers and ash from Garrett’s fireballs. “You were just digging through the crates while we were doing all of the work?!”

“You’re a mercenary. Are you used to employers doing your work for you? My, you must be so terribly spoiled.”

Garrett leaned over Anders’s shoulder. He read aloud. “The Delicate Complexities of Spirit Healing. Huh. You’re a spirit healer?”

Anders put the tome into the rough satchel he carried over his other shoulder. “I think so. Either that or the Pride demons are getting  _ really _ clever. Either way, this book should enlighten things.”

“How much are we getting paid for this? Whatever it is, I want double.” Carver said as he looked over the new notch in his sword. He gave it up for a loss and threw it onto one of the bodies.

“I’m sure the Maker will remember your admirable service here today.”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m joking.” Anders laughed and gestured around the warehouse. “You have whatever you can find here and then I’ve got a few sovereigns that’ll be delivered to you later, but the real profit is here. Surely this statuette of a mabari is priceless - being that you’re Ferelden and all.”  
  
Carver muttered curses under his breath. “This entire city is mad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What I wouldn't give for party banter with these replacements.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [This gif summarizes everything.](https://gfycat.com/FoolishHastyIberianemeraldlizard#)

Garrett had a good hand. He looked up from it at the other occupants in Varric’s suite and decided it wasn’t good enough. Even with a lap full of Isabela, Sebastian was the best straight player at the table. Or the  _ very _ best at cheating - he hadn’t decided. And Isabela was no worse for being in the Warden’s lap, somehow able to hide her cards despite revealing nearly everything else. Aveline had left earlier in disgust at the display and Varric’s hand was good enough that he was writing notes for his next book. Or it was bad enough he didn’t care.

Maker, Garrett was bad at Wicked Grace.

He glanced over at his brother, but Carver was torn between blushing at Isabela’s assets and scowling at his cards. By all rights, Carver should have been out of coin, but Garrett’s gut told him that one or more of Isabela, Varric and Sebastian were sneaking him more coins just to watch his frustrated shouts when he lost.

“Hawke? Some time tonight?” Varric’s words snapped him out of his thoughts.

With a good-natured grumble, Garrett threw his cards onto the table face down. “Forget it. I’m out.” He stood, pushing his chair out and picked up his empty cup. “I’m getting another round, anyone else?”

Everyone shoved their cups forward, but before Garrett could get overburdened, Anders set down his book and stood to help. Together, they took the cups down into the pub proper. “Thanks, Brother. Isn’t it… Weird to just sit there reading while we’re all indulging?”

Anders smirked and ran his hand over his hair, checking his ponytail. “It’s much more fun to watch. I’m rubbish at cards and I don’t exactly have a lot of coin to spare.” He collected his share of the refilled cups. “Besides, things get a little…  _ heated _ when I drink.”

Garrett picked his up and winked. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t mind a little of that.”

Anders laughed and gently hip checked him. “Not the heat I was thinking of.”

“Huh?” Garrett paused, blinking owlishly for a moment before it hit him. “ _ Oh _ . Right. That would be a problem. At least somewhere so public.”

They made eye contact and shared a grin that was quickly becoming heated when the front door to the Hanged Man opened. Justice pushed its way past the drunk half-blocking the door and Garrett was just drunk enough not to cow at the sight of the tall man in full Warden plate armor.

“Brother Anders. It is good you are here. You keep Sebastian from Whimsical Activities.” Justice said.

Garrett stared and mouthed the words ‘whimsical activities’ a few times, as if it would make more sense on repetition. It didn’t. “Uh, right.” He looked away from the Warden and made his way back to Varric’s suite, not missing Anders’s heavy sigh and mumble of ‘it was going to happen some time.’ He kicked the base of the door a few times, since his hands were full. It was opened by Isabela, who was bent over backwards, still in Sebastian’s lap and had worked the handle with just the tips of her fingers. Which she wiggled at him in greeting.   
Garrett deposited the glasses on the table, spilling only a little of the disgusting ale on himself before retaking his seat. Anders had filed in a step behind him, but Justice didn’t enter until Garret had already sat down. And he was glad of it, because from his seat, he had a wonderful view of Sebastian’s expression slowly morphing in horror. He looked like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.

When Sebastian made no move to greet his fellow - he was, in fact, hiding his face in one hand, as if it could hide him - Varric took the initiative. “Welcome! Justice, wasn’t it? Bet there’s a story behind  _ that _ nickname.”

Justice closed the door behind it, but remained standing. “It is not a nickname. It is what I am.”

Sebastian groaned in a way that had nothing to do with the buxom woman wiggling in his lap.

Isabela cackled with delight before openly leering. “I’d certainly like to see your Justice.”

“You’re going to regret that,” Sebastian said into his palm.

“Don’t be jealous,” Isabela chided just before everything went to shit.

Justice removed its helmet, revealing deathly pale - literally - skin with sunken, beady eyes and unnaturally hollow cheeks. Carver choked on his sip of ale and half-collapsed over the table, coughing. Varric’s glass slipped out of his hand, from its position halfway to his mouth. It hit the table with a clink and watery swill spilled all over the cards. Isabela stiffened and fell out of Sebastian’s lap with a mouthful of curses.

Garrett’s jaw dropped and he wondered, possibly aloud, if blinking enough times would bring sense back.

It didn’t.

 

\---

 

“Wait, so you’re saying the Hero of Ferelden really  _ is _ our cousin Daylen?” Carver asked.

Sebastian looked up from where he was stitching one of Justice’s bloodless wounds closed. After she’d righted herself on the floor of Varric’s suite, Isabela had drawn her daggers and started slicing before asking questions. The crossbow bolt still piercing the griffon’s head on Justice’s cuirass said Varric had done the same.

So here Sebastian was, sewing a corpse back together. Again. He hoped his mother was at the Maker’s side watching this and laughing uproariously about how he’d refused her lessons in needlepoint as a child because he’d  _ never _ have to sew his own things. He pushed the thought away and focused again on Carver. “I tell you a wild tale about Princes and Broodmothers and Spirits and Demons and  _ that’s _ what you’re curious about?”

“He’s the  _ Hero _ of  _ Ferelden _ ,” Carver said, enunciating each word as if Sebastian were the stupid one. “And our cousin!”

“I’m the  _ Prince _ of Starkhaven. Surely a prince is better than a hero.” Sebastian turned back to the wound and kept his shudder at the feel of clammy, dead flesh internal. He had steady, archer’s hands, but even after fighting the  _ Mother _ , he remained squeamish. Afterall, he hadn’t had to  _ touch _ the Mother, just shoot his arrows from a distance and grimace when Oghren walked up covered in gore.

“Your title is disputed,” Justice said, though thankfully the chest of the corpse he was inhabiting didn’t move with the words.

“Relax, Charming, you’re still  _ my _ favorite Warden,” Varric said. The dwarf was at the far end of the table, writing fiercely in his notebook.

Isabela stood against the wall furthest from Justice, but her initial shock had faded. A mischievous glint sparkled in her eye. A glint that Sebastian would normally be the first to capitalize on, but given the circumstances, it just made his stomach churn. As he continued to make tiny sutures, he prayed to Andraste Isabela wasn’t thinking what he thought she was.

“So… Justice. Since your body is made out of magic, it doesn’t get tired, does it?” Isabela finally asked.

“You are alluding to something. I do not know what.”

Sebastian made a choked noise before gagging. He stepped away from the corpse and simply left the needle and catgut attached. He shook his hands, as if  _ that _ could cleanse the filth suddenly in his mind. “ _ Honestly _ , Isabela.”

Everyone else looked confusedly between Sebastian and Isabela for a moment, trying to figure out just what had passed. Anders figured it out first, also gagging with a sputtered “Andraste preserve me.” Carver looked fit to pass out while his older brother’s expression couldn’t decide between impressed and disappointed. Varric just went back to his furious scribbling.

“What?” Isabela said without even pretending innocence.

Sebastian shuddered and picked up a glass, at random, draining it in a single drink. He sat heavily on the nearest chair and wiped his forehead. “Isabela, love, you’ve just compared yourself to Oghren in my mind and now you’re forever tainted.”

Justice turned his unblinking gaze on Sebastian. “Is she also overly concerned with bodily functions?”

Isabela giggled and twirled a strand of hair around her fingers. She ran her tongue over her lips, letting it linger over the piercing. “That’s one way to put it, big boy.”

Carver hit the floor with a thump.

Sebastian used the resulting chaos to slip out of the pub and into the adjacent alley. He ran a hand through his auburn hair and pretended that the Lowtown air outside of the Hanged Man was somehow better than inside. He looked up when Garrett joined him. He sat quietly on the mouldy crate and tried to empty his mind. Despite his scene inside, disgust wasn’t the emotion roiling under his skin. Thinking too closely about Justice’s nature just brought back  _ why _ he was in Kirkwall in the first place.

“So… Want to talk about it?” Hawke asked. He was leaned against the outer wall of the Hanged Man and picked at the hem of his coat.

“The Chantry wasn’t too fond of Daylen getting away from them. And even less fond of my ‘betrayal.’ As if I owed them anything. They sent proper Templars to ‘rein us in.’ As far as the Chantry knows, Justice is a Warden by the name of Kristoff - that was the original body he inhabited.” Sebastian sighs with his entire body, stretching his legs out, boots scraping in the muck on the street.

Hawke rubbed the back of his neck. “I thought you were here because of the Flint Company?”

Sebastian sighed again. “Coincidence. I hope.” He rubbed his face with both hands, as if he could wipe away the weight from his heart. “Nate and I knew we had to get Justice out of Vigil before Roland found him, but the truth wouldn’t do. He would say some rot about righteousness and justice and how he should turn himself in if that was how it should be. Conveniently, I got a letter that my entire family had been murdered.”

“I- Shit. I’m sorry.” Garrett’s hands clenched into fists and he kicked the wall with his heel. “I don’t know what to say…”

“It’s… Fine. No, it’s not, but I hadn’t seen or spoken to them since I was thirteen. No letters since I joined the Wardens. Regardless, that’s how we got Justice to the Free Marches.” Sebastian pulled out one of his arrows and ran his fingers along the shaft. “But it could be worse. Meredith is tickled pink to have Wardens in the city, and me being a former Templar to boot.”

“Making a deal with a demon, that.” Hawke tilted his head back and felt the end of his staff with the back of his head. “So what are you going to do after we’ve taken care of the Flint Company?”

Sebastian laughed, though he had to fight down the bubble of hysteria in his chest. “Find out who hired them, I suppose? Hopefully by then Justice will be knee-deep in the Mage-Templar tensions or Daylen will be back in Vigil or maybe I’ll run away again. I’m not particularly good at it, but I’m not the type to give up.”

“Not interested in being the Prince of Starkhaven?”

He twirled the arrow and glanced down its length. “I was. Once. Not much point, now. Go home, start a civil war get my lands back from my cousin only to pass it off to another cousin when my Warden ticket comes up. Pray my  _ other _ cousins don’t make war on the one I’ve picked…”

Garrett quirked an eyebrow. “Having a kid of your own is out of the question?”

“Wardens are sterile.”

“...That would put a bit of a damper on things.”

“Those mercenaries… The Flint Company… They murdered the children, Hawke. My nieces and nephews were just babes.” He paused, taking a few deep breaths to try and ease the suffocating tightness in his chest. He hadn’t even met them and they were  _ gone _ without even memories to live on through. “No, the last thing I’m going to do is return to the castle.”

Hawke was silent for several long moments. In the distance, a cat yowled and there was a burst of noise and activity - some Darktown brat chasing it down for a meal, no doubt. Closer at hand, the Hanged Man’s front door was open, letting out noise and light and the scent of fresh vomit as well as Carver. Garrett pushed away from the wall and clapped Sebastian on the shoulder. “I think we’re gonna have to try to get in touch with cousin Daylen’s mortalitasi.”

“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah, because when we find out who killed your family, I’m gonna need to kill ‘em more than once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Rake Sebastian is delightful, but he _is_ a believer, still, despite the abuses he's personally suffered and seen done to the mages. He's also deeply wounded by the murder of his family and in this AU he can't or won't find peace in the Chantry.
> 
> It'll come out later, but rest assured there are reasons that, unlike canon, he has no interest in reclaiming his lands/title and it's not just his sterility, though that's the easiest to tell other people.
> 
> Next chapter will be more Brother Anders, I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no plans for this. Feel free to throw out ideas.


End file.
